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“Are you Pete McDonald?” Her voice was full of promises of hot sex and long nights. She looked at the powerfully built, black-haired man next to her. Crystal green eyes met his Irish blues. He noticed golden highlights woven into her hair. Maybe it was just a trick of the lighting.

“Depends,” he answered.

“On what?” she asked.

“On who’s asking.”

“I am,” she replied.

“And you are. . . ” he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Your Guardian Angel,” she said sincerely.

He nearly choked and looked at her. He was tempted to believe her. He took another pull on his beer.

“Well, Angel, you got a name?”

“Abby.”

“Abby what?”

“We don’t use first and last names up there,” she explained, pointing upward.

“On the roof?” he asked jokingly, enjoying this offbeat and unexpected encounter.

“Don’t be silly!” she scolded, “You know very well that I meant, Heaven! What are you drinking?” she asked.

Reckless Angel

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